Illum tangendo
by cardinalcampeius
Summary: Eragon has an attack on his back while under Oromis's training, and Oromis tries to help.


Eragon collapsed to the ground with a dull thud and a choked gasp tore from his throat, clawing at the bare, musty soil and making deep grooves in the earth's surface. Pain, blinding pain, lanced up and down the scar on his back as his ravaged muscles twisted and convulsed around the scar, which burned hotter than any fire and froze colder can any ice-capped mountain. His gasping slowly devolved into a low groan. Seconds passed into minutes and still his body wouldn't stop and his mind refused to give into unconsciousness. In his stupor, he was vaguely aware of a shadow passing over him, and then a cool, slender hand laying on his shoulder. After flinching from surprise, and screaming from the resulting agony, he realized it was the hand of the Mourning Sage. He risked turning his head upwards to see his face, although it occurred to him that the effort would be useless. As always, he could glean no reaction no reaction from the elf, save for his mouth drawn in a tight frown.

Sweat made his limbs slick, and he blinked the salty droplets from his eyes, panting, grimacing. They stayed like that for what could have been hours, Oromis kneeling by his student's side, his face an untouched pool of calm, Eragon spasming and struggling on the ground, until at last the torment subsided enough that he could breathe regularly. His breathing slowed from gasping to panting to trembling, slow intakes of breath. Throughout the ordeal Saphira had touched his mind and worry colored her thoughts. It gave him little comfort, but as he began to recover, she withdrew slightly, encompassed in her training with Glaedr. When it looked like Eragon could stand without falling into another seizure, he brought himself to his knees and then rose painfully slow, as if every inch he moved were like lifting one of the great Beor mountains.

He wavered for a moment, swaying in the gentle breeze, then rage exploded inside him and he swore gravely. Fingers tore at skin, at hair, frustration making his breath hiss through clenched teeth. He was still shaking violently and the anger racked his limbs until he almost fell to one knee, stumbling. He ran his fingers through his hair and then swung at Oromis, his face contorted with misery. "I can't," he managed to spit out, limping around the clearing like a maddened beggar. "I can't.. I can't do it! I can't do this anymore. I can't defeat Galbatorix with this scar. I can barely do the simplest of tasks without the threat of another..another attack looming on the horizon!" Oromis dipped his head slightly. "You must, Eragon. You have to, for the sake of all living creatures in this land. Calm your thoughts. The attack is over now."

"No," he growled, stopping in the center of the clearing and staring at the ground as if his very gaze could make the grass and insects swarming within it burst into flame. "No.. No, I can't. Every day.. every day it's getting worse, and the elves have tried everything, but there's no use to it!" Oromis simply watched. Suddenly, all the anger seemed to rush out of the young Rider and he stood with his hands on his hips, gasping for breath. "Oromis, with all your years and knowledge, surely, surely there's something you can do to help me. Please." He turned his head to stare down the elf, half with pleading, half with conviction. Oromis held his gaze steadily, then dropped his eyes, his brows knitting, fingers fanned out in front of him. He stayed like that for minutes, contemplating. Finally, his regal head rose and he announced, "There are no promises, Eragon, nor can I guarantee I can find any reasonable solution, but if you insist, then I have no right to deny you that, if it is only a sense of closure. Come." He waved a thin, pale hand for Eragon to follow him and he obliged, half-limping his way back to Oromis's house.

"Take off your shirt," Oromis said, hovering behind Eragon as he sat on the stool, already chastising himself for his weakness. On the way back, Saphira had bombarded his mind with a series of scoldings, questions, and concern, a mix that was so permeable he had to withdraw from her as to not be consumed by it. He assured her he was fine, and that was that. Reluctantly, he peeled off the damp clothing and lay it by the stool, exposing the grotesque span of flesh on his back. It stood in high relief against the rest of his skin, dark, twisted, evil in its very physical being. The sight caused the Mourning Sage to draw in a slow, meticulous inhale.

A splindy hand drew up and ghosted along the base of the scar, touching mottled and ravaged flesh, hovering over the worst areas, causing an involuntary wince from Eragon, and all was silent for a great while. But then something strange happened; he felt the press of cold fingers against warm skin, somewhere on his shoulder-blade, gentle as a feather's touch but the chill of his hand made him have to restrain a flinch. The fingers stayed for a moment, then trailed to the right to his spine, the digits spreading out until the sage's hand was flat against his back. Then it slid up until the fingers curled around the bend of his neck and shoulder, not holding him there, but merely touching, and confusion sprang up inside Eragon, a hard and electric knot in his gut. He thought, just for a moment, he could detect the soft flit of hair on his shoulder, and a whisper of breath by his ear, a voice like the most sorrowful of tales and songs, lilting. It drew him in and he felt heat draw to his face - why was this? What was happening to him? - but suddenly the hand drew away, and from behind him Oromis's voice rang out clear: "There is nothing I nor anyone can do about your condition, Eragon. I am sorry." A beat of silence, he heard footsteps and turn to look back at him but halfway through the motion he spoke again. "Put on your shirt. Go outside and observe the forest and after an hour, return and tell me what you have learned." Eragon hesitated, blinking through his puzzlement at the sage and his own flushed face, but eventually nodded.

"Yes, Master."

He stepped outside and found his hands trembling. He took a breath to steady himself and trudged to the stump.


End file.
